


sixth avenue

by gossamernotes



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky makes a homeless friend and all the feels happen, Gen, POV Outsider, PTSD, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamernotes/pseuds/gossamernotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living on the corner of 6th avenue in Brooklyn is not what Adam Jackson expected once he returned home from the war. </p><p>And he certainly didn't expect to become friends with a twitchy veteran named James who carries two pistols and can't seem to remember shit.</p><p>[The story wherein Bucky finds a friend in a homeless veteran and eventually finds himself again.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	sixth avenue

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. This story happened in about an hour, and it is my second fanfiction ever, so please let me know what you all think! Enjoy!
> 
> I have always liked the idea of writing from the outsider POV -- and after reading The Smithsonian Guard by galerian_ash, I really wanted to try. Go check that story out too!

Blown to kingdom come by a fucking IED, and what does he get? A medal of honor? A shiny prosthetic leg that creaks when he misses oiling it or, _god forbid_ , another calibration that will leave him limping for nearly a week. 

No, the best shit he gets after signing away his life (and limb) to the army is the best corner in Brooklyn in an alley near 6th avenue.

Huddling against the rough brick of the building behind him, Adam shakes his head as he catalogues the absolute shithole his life has become since his leg was taken and woke up to a life that would leave him cold and hungry on the streets of a country he had once promised to protect and serve. 

Man, what a _fucking_ idiot he had been. 

It has been nearly a year since he returned from his third tour in Iraq -- way before he was meant to and way after he had wanted to -- and his corner on 6th avenue is now neatly groomed with whatever cardboard boxes, empty milk jugs, tossed blankets, and stolen laundromat clothes he could get his hands on. His leg, now that it has been honest-to-god weeks since it had been oiled or tinkered with, refuses to hold his weight and keeps him sat in this forsaken alley. 

Strangely hopeful, Adam wonders if maybe he might die like this, and that only makes him snort because he is now closer to dying on the homefront while homeless than he did on foreign soil with armor-piercing shells whizzing over his head. 

Trying to shift his prosthetic down to get a better look at it, Adam forces the knee joint to unbend and winces at the cracking jolts it makes as his leg finally lowers to the gravel floor. The leg is scuffed to hell and back -- likely from the fight he had gotten into about a week ago with some other guys over some junk scrap he could have sold -- and he leans his head against the brick wall. 

“Well, this is fucked,” he breathes through his nose, scrunching his brows. His eyes snap open, though, when he hears jostle from above. Adam might not have been the best soldier and would be the first to admit it, but he was damn well trained enough to know when there was a goddamn sniper targeting you in their crosshairs and that made Adam’s blood run cold. Tilting his neck to get a better look at the roof across from him, he clears his throat. 

“Whoever is up, you ain’t a bird. You don’t get to pull that kind of shit unless you’re a sniper -- and if you are -- take the fucking shot already. You’d be doing me a favor.”

Nothing called back to Adam, which he was honestly expecting, but the silence unnerves him because only trained snipers (unlike the punk kids from down the block who enjoy throwing rocks at him from above because their idea of fun is to taunt homeless vets with one leg) can be that quiet.

A shadow moves across the rooftop, and Adam flinches. Expecting to hear the whistle of a solid caliber slicing through the air before it blows his brains out, he closes his eyes and thinks of his sister and whether or not she will regret having let her husband kick him out of their house when they find his body.

But the whistle never comes. Instead, a muffled thump hits the gravel street, and Adam squints through the darkness to see a man standing across from him in the alley. He can’t see well with what little light reaches the alley from the busy street a few feet away -- and that’s really the only consolation he has because maybe this stranger won’t kill him with witness so close -- but he can make out the man’s tense gait, unkempt hair, and baggy clothes.

 _Strange_ , Adam thinks, _because this guy looks about as shitty as I do._

Working his voice from his throat, Adam tilts his head towards the stranger. “So, I am going to take a wild guess and say that you are not going to kill me then?” The other man stills, and Adam wonders if he will even give him the courtesy of answering the question, before a scratchy voice responds. 

“Do you want me to?”

Adam freezes before letting out a laugh that is entirely too loud and forces himself to stop once he sees that the other guy is about to run for it. “Hell, what a question. I don’t want you to, but I am pretty much a sitting target here. I couldn’t run nowhere, and you might think you are sneaky, but I can see that you got at least four knives on you and what? Two pistols,” he answers. 

The other guy nods before turning on his heel as if to leave. However, he stops and looks at Adam’s leg for a moment.

Desperate for some conversation, Adam brushes his hand against his metal thigh. “Yeah, I get that second glance a lot. Um, the war was kind of a bitch, and when I left, it decided to take my leg or some shit for compensation. I didn’t agree with it at the time -- still don’t -- but I got this toy for my troubles.”

“Does it hurt?” Adam is surprised by the question and why not? Why shouldn’t he be honest?

“Right now? Like you wouldn't believe, man. I’m supposed to oil this tinker toy and do some fancy maintenance afterwards, but that’s just not in my cards, I suppose.” The other guy nods shortly before heading off towards the street, and Adam feels his stomach drop because he knows that walk and he knows those eyes and those hollowed cheeks. 

He sees them every fucking time he looks into a storefront window and sees his sorry mug staring back at him. 

Fisting some gravel into his hand, Adam takes a breath.

“Adam.”

The other man keeps walking. Adam rolls his eyes.

“Hey, I think this is the part of the conversation where you tell me your name, stranger."

Stopping at the lip of the alley, the other man comes to a stop for a moment, his gloved hands twitching at his side.

“James.”

And, with that, the man is gone.  


_______

When Adam wakes up in the morning, neck stiff because sleeping against a brick wall is _not_ comfortable at all, it takes him a moment for his eyes to focus on the little bottle of oil sitting next to him. 

Half asleep, he reaches for the bottle -- missing it once or twice with his tired fingers -- before he can bring it to his face and read what the bottle says. Where did this come from? Running his fingers across the cap, he opens the bottle and realizes that he could get his stupid leg to work now, and an honest smile works its way onto his chapped lips. 

He looks around the alley and sees nothing out of place. No one is sleeping behind the dumpster and all of his shit is still where he left it last night. Rolling his shoulders, Adam dips two fingers that are now coated in slick motor oil to work around the joints of his metal knees and laughs an hour later when he is finally able to move the damn limb without hearing any creaking protests. 

Adam looks up towards the roof and brings a hand to his face in a mock salute.

“Thank you, James.”

There is no reply.  


_______

It becomes an odd sort of thing. 

Adam will spend the day out of his alley -- making trips away from his caddyshack home to scrounge for money or attend food drives or steal razors because a five o’clock shadow never agreed with him -- and return late at night to find James waiting for him. 

James, who he has found, is a quiet sort of man with sharp eyes that notice everything and who cares for little beyond eating, sleeping, and keeping watch.

If he’s feeling particularly sentimental, Adam thinks that James may care a little for their oddly formed friendship, but that feeling normally fades away when he wakes up in the middle of the night to a kitchen knife at his throat because James’ nightmares are always, _always_ bad. 

Nearly two weeks into their ritual, and after yet another nightmare that leaves James mumbling (in fucking Russian?), the pair of them find themselves sitting across from each other in their little alley. Feeling older than his thirty-one years, Adam bites the bullet and lights a cigarette that he has been saving for about month because he is tired and hungry and would give his flesh-and-blood leg right now for a hot shower. The smoke curls down his throat and into his lungs, making him cough, before he lets it slip past his lips. Looking at James, who looks just as tired and hungry and greasy as he does, Adam holds out the cigarette towards him. 

James looks at him carefully before taking the cigarette -- which is a surprise and a win in Adam’s book -- before tasting the tobacco. It’s a short drag, but when he gives the cigarette back to Adam, he has a faraway look in his eyes. 

Adam knows this look; he’s seen it more times than he cares to count over the past couple of week. And he sure as hell knows better now than to talk to James when he gets like this. So, he sits quietly and sucks on his cigarette until James voices breaks the silence. 

“I think I used to do that,” James mumbles. Adam nods, not commenting on the memory that James seems uncertain about. 

There are horrible things in Adam’s past. His childhood was shit, his adolescence shittier, and his adult life had been signed away from the moment he gave his name at a recruitment office and was shipped off to a godforsaken desert. But his past had nothing on James -- he knew this instinctively -- and fuck all if he knew what to do about it. 

The most Adam knew was that James was a vet like he was -- the sniper stance, tracking eyes, armed body, and that fucking ridiculous metal arm of his all gave that away -- but there was more. Maybe it was amnesia or stubborn selective memory, but James had...trouble remembering his life before the war. Adam had offered to help James find his family or girlfriend or dog he left behind if he could just get a full name, but James’s stony stare had vetoed that offer before anything came of it. All Adam could really do was listen when James took a trip down memory lane and pray.

James curls into himself, bringing his knees to his chest. “I remember smoking after work...by the docks, I think? The other guys would too, but I couldn’t at home because of him. His lungs worked for shit then,” he trails on as if he was chasing the memory down, grasping for details and colors and names along the way. 

Adam nods again before tossing his cigarette, content with the tobacco buzzing through his system now. James often talked about this other guy in his memories, and while the curiosity was more than he could handle at times, Adam knew better than to push for a name. Hell, that is if James even _remembers_ the guy’s name. 

Pushing himself off against the wall, Adam reaches for an old blanket he snatched off a clothesline a few blocks away and wraps it around his shoulders.

“Makes sense, you know? Smoking is bad for good lungs, so this friend of yours? Nice of you to keep that shit away from him,” Adam says lightly, and James softens for a moment.

“We didn’t know back then about smoking,” he replies, and Adam wonders about that because who in the hell didn’t know how bad smoking was for you these days, but he lets it drop when James opens his mouth again. Adam blanks at his words, feeling as if his ears were plugged with cotton, and he asks James to repeat what he said just one more time. 

Looking straight ahead with an honest to god smile on his face, James nods.

“Steve. His name is Steve.”  


_______

James didn't come back after that night, and despite keeping himself busy, Adam can’t help but feel sick to his stomach each night when he looks up and down his alley to find himself alone. 

It had been one week and then two and rolling into the third before Adam finally stopped calling out to rooftops and leaving extra scraps of food at night for James because James wasn’t coming back. And that was fine, really. Adam was used to shit like this by now, but that never makes him feel better each time it happens.

And tonight, cornered in the back of his alley with three punks looking to rough someone up, Adam is spoiling for a fight. His leg has started to creak again since he couldn’t get oil without James’ help, but he has always been told that he has a solid right hook and taking these punks down would be a good test of character for him and reminder to them.

Standing in front of him, the gangly kid in the middle wearing a patchwork bandana and all black decides to put his cards on the table and pulls out a fucking cleaver from his waistband, and Adam swallows. These kids want to do more than rough him up, and the blood rushing through his ears clues him in that maybe fighting isn't the best decision tonight. But running away on his leg isn't going to happen -- running away period just isn't his style -- and he takes the first swing at the kid on the left and knocks him out cold. 

The other two are on him in a second, and Adam has to roll to avoid getting his ear chopped off by the kid with the knife. On his back, he hooks an ankle around the kid’s leg and pulls hard, bringing the kid down to the ground with a sickening thud as his head hits pavement. The third punk makes to move forward but stops and hauls ass out of the alley, realizing that he was not going to do shit if it was just him alone fighting. 

Adam breathes heavily, scuttling back on his hands and knees to catch his breath and try to get on his feet. Trying to push his metal leg to carry his weight, he doesn’t notice that the kid with the knife has gotten back to his feet and is coming at him with blood in his eyes and a scream on his lips. Adam turns, bringing his hands up to block wherever the kid was aiming for with that knife until a loud thud and a muffled scream distracts him.

After three weeks, James looks better than he had when Adam last saw him. His hair is cut into what can pass as a decent haircut, and his scraggly beard is shaved clean. His loose clothing is now replaced with dark pants and a warm long-sleeved henley. But, standing in that alley with his metal arm placed tightly against the kid’s throat, Adam can see nothing but a soldier standing across from him. 

The kid tugs at James’ arm, choking as he struggles to breathe, but James only pushes harder into the kid’s airway. 

“You think you’re so tough with that fucking knife, huh? Think you could kill a man? You _can’t_ , kid, let me tell you that,” James snarles as he drove a knee into the kid’s stomach. Adam moves -- finally, thank god because he makes it a rule to not have anyone die in his alley -- and he carefully places an arm on James’ shoulder. 

Adam takes in a deep breath. “James, let him go.”

Nobody moves, and James let out what might be a growl. “He tried to kill you, Adam. I can’t just let him go.” 

“Yes, you can. Don’t stoop to that level. Just let him go, alright,” Adam coaxes softly as he trailed his hand down James’ shoulder and onto his metal arm. James shakes for a moment before practically throwing the kid off of the wall. 

He takes a step forward. “Get the fuck outta’ here, kid, and I swear I will gut you if you as so much step foot on 6th avenue again. Take your friend and run,” he spits out as the kid -- know disarmed and sobbing breathlessly -- grabs his friend and hurries them out of the alley. Once they have left, Adam sinks to his knees, running his hands over his split lip and bruised cheek and feels grateful that he still has breath in his lungs. A hand reaches down and heaves Adam back to his feet, and the world spins. 

“You’re an idiot, you know that? You should have run the moment he pulled that knife,” James mutters before taking a step back and letting Adam stand on his own. Snorting, Adam runs a hand through his hair. 

“I am not one to run away from things.”

James gets an odd look in his eye before laughing, something which makes Adam smile because it is nice to hear his friend sound happy for once. 

“Yeah. I’ve heard that excuse before.”  


________

James still doesn’t stick around after that night, but he does leave Adam with a hunting knife and soft instructions to kill any sorry bastard who tries to spring him again.

And then he is gone just as quickly as he came. 

Adam keeps the knife tucked away in his pocket -- because fuck all if he is getting caught unarmed in a fight like that again -- and starts going to VA meeting a few blocks down. The office had just opened, and while Adam stayed away from charities on principle, he had met one of the counselors and found that he was not a pompous asshole with pity in his eyes and wallet. 

Sam Wilson, he finds, is a genuine guy who likes Adam and kicks ass at poker and _that is enough_. 

On Thursdays, the VA starts running food drives and dinners for homeless vets in the area, and Adam finds himself dragging his feet back to the hole-in-the-wall building in hopes of a hot meal and good company. The front doors chime lightly when he enters the building, and within seconds, he feels a strong arm wrap around his shoulders to pull him into a hug.

“Hey, man! Glad you could make it,” Sam cheers as he let Adam go, and damn it if Adam can’t help but laugh at that.

“It’s not like I got much else to do.”

Adam spends the night eating and laughing and forgetting that his home is a back alley and that his leg is like something out of a cheesy 80’s sci-fi novel, and he is grateful. Thinking over the past few months, he wonders if he might be able to convince James to come to one of these dinners with him if he begged just enough and guilted just a little. But it has been a while since James has dropped down from any alley roofs lately and so he files the thought away for another time when he doesn’t need to take a piss. 

Leaving the kitchen, Adam moves into the hallway to find the bathroom when his shoulders knock into what must have been a brick wall because _ow_. However, as he looks up to apologize to the wall, Adam’s mouth drops when he finds himself face-to-face with Captain _goddamn_ America. 

“...you okay? I am really sorry about that,” Steve sputters as he looks over Adam, and the blush that works its way up Adam’s cheek is completely involuntary. He had never been a guy that swung just one way, and just looking at Captain America’s chiseled jawline and wide eyes was enough to make any person swoon. 

Gathering his wits, Adam clears his throat and waves away Steve’s worries. “Nah, you’re fine. I was just looking for the bathroom,” Adam admits and suddenly feels like kicking himself because how lame could he get? But Steve just laughs and points a thumb behind him to show that he was on the right track to the bathroom and, again, I am sorry again for, uh, running right into you. 

Unable to stop himself, Adam looks up at Steve. “Feel free to ignore this question, but what the hell are you doing at a homeless VA dinner, Captain?”

Steve’s face falls, and Adam suddenly feels like the world’s biggest douchebag for upsetting Captain America, but he eventually gets an answer after a brief pause.

“Would you believe me if I said I was friends with Sam over there and am trying to get him a date with the secretary up front?”

Adam bites out a laugh and nods his head. “I would believe that any day of the week, but between you and me, it seems like there is something a little more pressing here for you than being a matchmaker.” Steve lets out a long breath and nods.

“You’d be right...”

“Adam, sir. Adam Jackson,” he introduces himself, and Steve sticks out a hand to shake.

“I would introduce myself, Adam, but I feel like that would be a bit unnecessary at this point.”

“Unnecessary? Yes. But it’s still polite, you know. It might be the 21st century and all, but we still got manners in the future,” Adam says, and Steve’s face screws into a laugh.

“Well, then, I’m Steve Rogers.” Adam shakes Steve’s hand, balking at how his smaller hands are practically swallowed by Steve’s grip.

“Nice to meet you, Steve. I’d hate to cut this short and all, but I really wasn’t kidding when I said I needed the bathroom. It’s not everyday that I get to piss in an actual urinal and not in the back of my alley.”

Steve frowns. “I take it that you are one of the vets here then?”

Gesturing towards his rumpled clothes with holes and his dirt-covered nose, Adam nods. He tries to ignore how Steve was looking him up and down, stopping at his left leg once he could see metal peeking through the holes of his pant leg. 

“You have a prosthetic?” Adam flinches, still uncomfortable with talking about what all happened, but he manages to nod. Steve straightens before pointing back to the kitchen. “If you ever need repairs, let Sam know, alright? He is kind of a gearhead about that stuff, and if he can’t fix it...well, let’s just say we know someone who definitely can,” Steve continues. Adam flushes before taking a step backwards because he needs to empty his bladder before he embarrasses himself in front of Captain America again. 

“Will do, Steve,” he replies as he turns on his heel, heading quickly towards the bathroom down the hall. “It's an honor to meet you, sir.”

Steve keeps quiet behind him before he calling out, stopping Adam right before he can open the bathroom door. 

“Hey, you think you could do something for me?” Adam turns his head back and nods lightly because what could Captain America possibly want from him? Steve shoves his hands into his khaki pockets before fixing Adam with a look that reminds him why Captain America was feared by Nazis and respected by millions because that look shoots straight to Adam’s core and makes him stand at attention. 

“I am here looking for someone, alright? He’s a homeless vet, and he needs some help. He’s...We’re friends, but I’ve been having trouble keeping track of him. If you meet a man called Bucky, could you come by and let Sam know?” Adam nods, not trusting his voice to work at that moment, and watches Steve turn away towards the kitchen before disappearing past the door.

Adam moves to open the bathroom door, feeling the pressure of his bladder push against his groin, and he practically runs to the nearest urinal. 

Bucky, huh? What a weird name.  


_______

Who the hell is Bucky? 

Well, that is the question Adam would kick himself over in years to come because he studied Captain America and the 107th and the famed Howling Commandos in school -- _hell_ , he had even done a history project on them in the 5th grade -- and how does he not connect James to Bucky.

Because it wasn’t until a week after his run-in with Steve Rogers that Adam finds himself eating at a diner with James and putting two and two together. 

James still looks good with his hair trimmed and clothes washed and Adam wonders what the hell James has been doing to keep up his appearance when a voice cuts through his thoughts. 

“You okay, old man?” Adam snorts before carding his fingers through some of his greying black hair and fixes James with a look.

“You’re an asshole, James, you know that? I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk to me. That look of yours? The one that could kill a man? That was much easier to deal.”

James laughs, shaking his head and moves food around on his plate. “I could go back to that. You’d just have to ask nicely is all.”

“Nah, kid, I think I like you the way you are right now. It’s nice,” Adam says while doing his best not to notice James’ searching look, “to see you doing better. You look good, James.”

Shrugging his shoulders, James takes a small bite of food before pushing his plate away, and Adam fights the urge to shove some more food down his throat because James really need to eat more. But Adam would hate it if someone did that to him so he lets James be and instead fills up the silence with conversation about new people he’d met on the street and knickknacks that he’d found in the dump over on Claymore until he gets to mentioning the VA.

“...Captain fucking America, James! Can you believe that? He’s built like a brick house, I swear. His shoulders, I mean, damn. He was a nice kid though. I felt sorry for him-”

“Why?” Adam blinks, taking a moment to register James’ question before answering. 

“I guess he just looked sad. Imagine waking up seventy years in the goddamn future and being told that the war was over and that everyone you knew is dead. That’s just some shit luck there, James, and I bet Steve feels every inch of it. He looked old, and he was worried about some friend of his too now that I think of it,” Adam trails off before looking up sharply when a loud crack breaks his thoughts. James is staring pointedly at the table that is now flooded with water from James’ broken glass. Blood mixes with water as it started to drip off the table from where glass shards cut into James’ hand, and Adam scrambles for a napkin to press to the open cuts. However, before he can get close, James jerks away and stands. 

“His name!”

Adam freezes. “Wh-What?”

“His name! What was the friend’s fucking name?”

“Shit, James, hold still. You are bleeding-”

“ _His name!_ ”

“Bucky, alright? The kid’s name is Bucky,” Adam spits as he stands up from the booth, ignoring the stares of the other diners and waitresses in favor of keeping his eyes on James. 

James is breathing heavily, his eyes flitting back and forth from his hand to the table before taking a shaky step towards the door. Adam reaches a hand out, words dying on his lips, and James is already gone out of the door and running full tilt down the street. 

Standing there with soaked jeans and a pinched face, Adam racks his brain, desperately trying to think about what triggered James. He’d been talking about Captain America, and it had been alright. James hadn’t flipped his shit at that point, but it was only once he mentioned the friend that James jumped. 

Why’d he even give a shit? Bucky, Steve’s friend, had nothing to do with either of them. 

And, as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Adam realizes what the hell just happened. 

Because the Potomac in D.C. was still covered by the news every other day and leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. files on the Winter Soldier had speculated that he was more than just a crazed Russian assassin. Because 5th grade social sciences with Ms. Kimenns flashed through his mind as he sees black-and-white photos of Captain America with his shoulder slung around a tall, muscular man with a crooked smile and light eyes. Because James Bunchanan Barnes was also known by another name and that name was _Bucky_ and suddenly Adam can’t breathe. 

Because his friend and Steve’s friend are one in the same, and right now as he stands in the middle of a crowded diner, Adam wants nothing more than to run away.  


_______

Scrounging around for quarters after booking it out of the diner, Adam makes a call to the VA where Sam is at and leaves him a coded message because he doesn’t know what is safe and Sam is out of town and, oh god, he has fucked things up big time. 

Adam spends the next few days away from his alley, sleeping under overpasses and on benches, looking for anything that might suggest that James (or was it Bucky?) has been around. But the man was nothing more than a ghost it seemed, and Adam finds himself back in his alley after a week feeling sick to this stomach. 

He hasn’t heard much of anything from anyone, and when he went to the VA on Thursday to see if Sam had gotten his message, he was told that Sam had called in some vacation time. Adam relaxed at that, knowing that Sam took that time off to help Steve with James, but the churning of his stomach never stopped as he waited for something...anything...to happen. 

But nothing ever did.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into a month, and the months kept coming until it was almost summer and the heat was beating down on Adam’s darkened skin. With sweat trickling down his neck, Adam would walk the streets -- peeking into buildings when the nightly news clocked on only to be disappointed -- and sleep feverishly in his alley.

He would dream, more often than not, of either his leg getting blown off and being airlifted to a medical tent where the last thing he remembered before passing out was the whirring of a bone saw. Or he would dream of James and Steve. He would wake up from either dream gagging and feeling every bit of shit he felt like, and sometimes, he was glad for it. 

His life hadn’t gone the way he planned, he found himself thinking as he laid on the burning gravel with a hand shading his eyes from the sun. He had expected to be married at this point, handling a kid or two, and living in a nice suburb where neighbors talked and the grass was green and dinner was served every night. 

Looking around his alley, thinking about all of his fuck-ups in life with family and friends, Adam could only close his eyes. 

Maybe this is what he deserved after all.  


_______

Adam leaves sixth avenue, all of his shit packed into a threadbare rucksack, when a whole fucking family of homeless refugees need a place to live, and Adam never learned to say no. 

He wanders the streets, sleeping where he can and hitchhiking when possible, and never lets himself look longingly at the Brooklyn Bridge in the distance because he would never forgive himself for letting things end that way when things got tough. 

It was the middle of July when he finally gets the fucking courage to sneak on the next train out of Brooklyn to make the short trek to Manhattan. He’s never been to the bigger borough, but all of the lights and cars and people make him tremble as he sits on the sidewalk, praying for charity and a few spare coins as the sun dipped lower into the evening. 

He sometimes finds himself passing the Avengers Tower, and he wonders what would happen if he ever tried to go in and ask to see Steve Rogers. Adam snorts; he would just get thrown right back out on his ass. That’s what usually happened. 

Adam has also met some other guys on the street who were nice enough to share information and food and even some shade if they had enough liquor in them. But Adam eventually settles himself into an alley that he shares with two teen runaways a few blocks from the Avengers Tower.

New York has gotten blessedly cold at night these days, just enough to cool the sweat from Adam’s sunburnt face, and he knows he will sleep better tonight than he has in months. Digging his head into his hard rucksack, Adam shuts his eyes and bitterly wonders if his roommates have finally OD’d on whatever designer drug they are shooting up now when he hears their footsteps come in from the alley front. Turning over, he closes his eyes.

“I swear to _god_ , shut the fuck up. Get high as a fucking kite elsewhere,” Adam grumbles.

“Thanks but no thanks, Adam. It’s nice to see you too.”

Adam sits up like a shot and immediately regrets the action as his stomach tugs violently, and he retches to the side. He can hear hurried footsteps coming towards him before he feels a hand on his back, rubbing circles between his shoulders as he gags on air because food hadn’t been on the menu for him today.

He can hear voices from above him, going back and forth quickly, and it makes his head spin. “I am still here. I can hear, you know,” Adam bites as he uncurls himself, and he feels his eyes water when they reach James’ face. 

But it is the sight of Steve Rogers standing next to James that makes Adam cry because he is so fucking grateful that something good finally came to those two boys, and judging by the easy looks on their faces, Adam figures they finally made up during all these months. 

“...hospital, alright? You look awful, and that is saying something, old man. Can you stand?” Adam nods his head and swats at Steve’s hands when they try to grab his shoulder. 

Testing his metal leg, hearing the telltale creaks of abuse, Adam forces himself to stand on his own while James and Steve hover next to him like gnats. “I am old, not invalid. Hell, you two are older than me!”

James bites his lip, and Adam watches him carefully as he waits for James to say something. However, when nothing comes, Adam carefully brings a hand up to James’ shoulder.

“So, Bucky, huh?” Steve stiffens, and James jerks. Adam smiles before taking a step closer, fully aware that this might be his last act on this planet, before pulling James in for a hug. James is nothing but bony points and solid muscle under his arms, but as he relaxes into the hug, Adam wonders if he will ever be able to breathe right again with how hard James is squeezing him. 

“I am sorry. I am so fucking sorry, Adam. God, I didn’t mean anything by running out. And then Steve came, and I was getting better, and I went back to the alley, and there was nothing. You were fucking gone, man, and you kept outta’ sight. And I thought you were _fucking_ dead, old man. I thought you were dead.”

Adam moves against James’ shoulder before pulling back gently. “Son, I ain’t dead. And you’ve got absolutely nothing to be sorry about.”

James breathes before looking over Adam’s shoulder to Steve, and for a moment, Adam feels blindsided because he is literally living his old history project as he watches Steve come up to James and swing an arm around his shoulder. Their smiles are different -- rougher and muted -- but their body language is the same because those two boys are brothers until the end and they held onto each other like they both know it. 

Standing there under the flickering street lights a few feet away, Adam wonders how he even got here to this place to see these two rediscover one another until Steve’s voice knocks him for a loop.

“I am sorry we’ve been out of pocket. We’ve been busy.”

Adam nods at the two of them. “So it would seem.” Steve laughs and take a step forward, pointing his thumb behind his shoulder like he did that day at the VA except this time he is pointing towards the Avengers Tower rather than a community bathroom, and Adam swallows. 

“I recall telling you to let us know if you needed help with that leg of yours. It looks like you could use some help,” Steve says lightly, and James nods before stepping out from Steve’s shoulder. Walking towards Adam, James holds out a hand to him with the same crooked smile that Adam recalls seeing in a textbook decades ago.

James smiles. “Yeah, old man. I’ve had my turn. It's about time somebody got you fixed up though. Let's get to it.”

And, with a loose shake of his head, Adam takes the outstretched hand.

**Author's Note:**

> follow and fangirl with me on [tumblr](http://brooklynboystosupersoldiers.tumblr.com) because I love you all.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, settings, plot lines, concepts, or terminology as created, used, and owned by Marvel Entertainment, LLC ®. This is a work of fanfiction.


End file.
